My Iron Knight, page 7
“Where’s my son?”
Dash blinked and pulled his attention back to the present. The muscles in Zara’s neck stood out like cords. Her eyes blazed hot.
“Your son is quite safe,” Damaro said, inclining her head. “I’m a woman of my word.”
“Prove it.”
Damaro nodded to one of her men, who opened the door. In came two more suited men, hustling a bruised but breathing Brett ahead of them.
“Brett!”
“Mom,” he said, wide-eyed. He looked to Damaro, who smiled, her gaze locked on the boy. “Mom, do what they say. Please.”
“What have they done to you?” Zara said, trying to move closer but a guard stepped between them. “I swear, if they’ve hurt you…”
“I’m not hurt bad,” Brett said, glancing at Damaro again. “I swear. But please. You have to do what they say.”
“I think that’s enough,” Damaro said, raising her hand, and the men dragged Brett away. Zara shouted curses, straining against the hold one of the men had on her elbows.
“Don’t think I won’t shoot you in the balls,” she gritted into the man’s face. “If you touch one hair on my son’s head, I swear—”
“Now, now, Miss Cassidy,” Damaro said, sitting on the couch and indicating the one opposite. “Or can I call you Zara?”
“Call me dick,” Zara spat. “I’ll get my son back. And when I do, you’ll be sorry you ever even heard of Salvation.”
“Zara,” Dash said warningly, watching the dark look stealing through the other woman’s eyes.
“Yes, listen to your brother,” she said, hand still held outstretched. “All I want, right now, is to talk.”
Zara looked to Dash. Dash hesitated, glanced at the unreadable expression on Vasiliev’s face and took the seat. Zara muttered a few more of her choicest curses and followed suit.
“You want to talk,” Dash said. “Let’s talk.”
“Yes. Let’s. First, I want to say that this has already gotten way out of hand.” Damaro smiled again, interlacing her fingers around her knee. “All I ever wanted was to reach an understanding with your club. I’m a businesswoman, nothing more.”
“And kids are big business, huh?”
Her expression flickered. Vasiliev watched him closely.
“Well, now, so we come to my second point.” She shifted her weight, making a show of choosing her words carefully. “You have taken some of my merchandise. Before we can go any further, I would like it returned.”
“‘Merchandise’?” Zara growled. “You’re a piece of work, lady.”
“Coming from you, Miss Cassidy,” Damaro said smoothly, “I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“You cannot and will not move kids through my town,” Dash said evenly.
“I will do as I choose,” Damaro said. “The only thing you have to decide is if you want your club and your family to survive the process.”
“We don’t respond well to threats, lady.”
“Not threats…promises,” she said easily. “Now, I am a reasonable person. And you have made it clear you don’t want to be part of my operation. Here’s my alternative proposal. Let us do our business, unmolested, and we will be more than happy to leave you to yours and pay you, well…let’s call it three times your usual fee?”
Dash’s fingers clenched. “You think this is about money?”
“It’s always about money, dear.”
“You’re scum,” Dash said, “sitting here in your fancy fucking house that was bought with the blood and tears of children.”
Damaro’s cool expression tightened. “The worst thing about this is you really believe you have the moral high ground—that you believe such a thing as moral high ground even exists in this world. But you can’t tell me that you aren’t bathed in the blood of so-called innocent people yourself, Darius Cassidy.” She stood. “We’re the same, you and me. I’m just better at it.”
Dash got to his feet. “We are not the same.”
“Lie to yourself all you like,” she said, “but you can’t lie to me. Tell you what…” she said, raising one long finger. “Keep the kids. I get it’s harder to pretend not to care once you’ve seen it with your own eyes. Keep those few. Let them go, send them back to where they came from… Do what you like. That batch is yours. A gesture of goodwill, shall we say.” Her face darkened. “In return, you stay out of my way.”
“Or what?”
She raised a silver eyebrow. “You have eleven days left to consider my proposition, Mr. Cassidy. After that, I will not be inclined to play nice. Vasiliev?” He straightened at her back, his mouth a thin line. “Perhaps you can persuade Mr. Cassidy and his sister to leave without making a scene?”
“I have a name, bitch,” Zara growled before spitting at Damaro’s feet and storming out. Vasiliev moved to the door and waited, his eyes on Dash. Dash continued to glare at Damaro.
“This isn’t over,” he said, then followed his sister.
Vasiliev and half a dozen armed men escorted Dash and Zara back to the gates of the complex where several Iron Knights were waiting, just out of firing range. Zara was out as soon as the gate was wide enough to pass through, but Dash turned to Vasiliev. The Russian gazed at him impassively, his eyes again masked by the dark glasses.
“I know this isn’t you,” he murmured, low enough for Vasiliev’s ears only. “Don’t let this woman steal your soul.”
“Who says I have one left to steal?”
The gates clanged closed between them.
“I want my bike back,” he called through the bars. Vasiliev paused and looked over his shoulder.
“Be grateful if that’s all you lose, Cassidy.”
Dash seethed. Zara shouted from the back of Harley’s bike. Dash went to rejoin his club, the sun hot on his neck, helplessness burning through his veins like poison.
Chapter Five
Dash spent the rest of the day in the relative cool of the back garage, tearing chucks off the twisted hulk of the wrecked Kalashnikov. He’d sent a couple of prospects to pick it up and didn’t need to be a mind reader to interpret the looks on their faces when they unloaded it.
“As far as the world’s concerned, it’s business as usual,” he’d said firmly and they’d loped off, hands in their pockets, muttering.
Engine parts and dented sheets of the chassis now lay scattered around Dash’s feet. Sweat ran down his bare chest and back, slicking his bandana to his head. Every bit of broken metal he yanked off the bike made him feel less numb, but at no point did he get close to feeling good.
“Don’t know why you’re bothering,” Zara muttered when she sought him out as evening finally began to draw in. “Even if it ever drives again, it’ll always have been that piece of murdering shit’s ride.”
“It helps me think,” Dash muttered as he threw a spanner into the toolbox and searched for a socket wrench.
“And what have you thought of?”
Dash fiddled with the wrench, staring at the gutted engine. “Kitty get anything from his phone?”
Zara shook her head. “It was pretty beat up. Could hardly get anything. But she did find something that helped her make sense of something she dug up elsewhere.”
“What?”
“That two-week deadline she gave us?” Zara’s eyes were hard. “Looks like that’s the first big shipment. Last night was just a test run.”
Dash ground his teeth. “A test run? With kids?”
“Yeah.”
Dash looked away. “How are they?”
“About as you’d expect. They’ve eaten, washed. Kitty even got some of them to play in the pool this afternoon.” Zara’s face changed, sadness leeching through the fear and anger. “Most of them don’t even know why they’re here. But the older ones…they get it.” She lifted her gaze to his. “They wouldn’t get changed until they were alone.”
Dash glared at the concrete floor. “We’ll stop her, Zar. I swear on Mom’s grave.”
“I know we will,” Zara said quietly. “We have to. I just don’t know how.”
Dash was unable to find an answer. Every time he tried to think of one, he thought of Vasiliev. His gut was telling him the Russian was the answer. His head was telling him if he believed that, he was playing right into Damaro’s hands.
Zara examined his face like she knew what he was thinking. But, for once, she left without saying so.
He lay in bed that night, staring at the shadows gathered between the posters on his ceiling, no closer to an answer than he had been at High Oaks, watching the gates clang shut between him and Vasiliev. The air in the room was hot and still. He lay on the covers in just his boxers, the night air stealing through open window doing little to cool his fevered skin. Even his breathing was sluggish.
He sighed and rolled over, then froze. There was a sound outside the window. He grabbed his gun just as a dark shape appeared behind the glass.
“Cassidy, it’s me. Don’t shoot.”
Dash pulled in a breath and stood, moving so his back was to the door, his gun aimed at the slim figure perched on his windowsill. “Vasiliev, you fucking maniac, what do you want?”
“I brought your bike back.”
Dash craned his neck to see Guinevere propped just inside the yard gates. Something uncertain snaked up his spine.
“Good,” he said. “Now scram or I’ll give you the third eye you’ve been begging for.”
“I just want to talk.”
“I’ve nothing more to say to you.”
A pause. “Are you sure about that?”
Dash’s mouth was dry. Heat swirled in his belly. He lowered the gun.
Vasiliev climbed in through the window, his movements awkward and stiff. He straightened, carefully, just out of reach, favoring his right leg. Dash could see the hard set of his jaw in the streetlight bleeding in from outside, the thin line of his mouth, unsmiling this time, and the dark bruising down his face. He could also see the cuts and scrapes on his arms, as well as the ridges of his chest and abdomen through another tight T-shirt. The feel and taste of him threatened to rise again in Dash’s mind, and he pushed it firmly away.
“How did you climb up here with that busted leg?”
“Carefully.” A twitch of his former smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. His gaze moved over Dash’s bare chest and arms. He swallowed, the flesh of his throat moving tantalizingly under the pale skin. Dash’s own skin rippled in response.
“I should kill you for that performance today.”
“It wasn’t a performance, Cassidy. Whatever is between us, Damaro is my boss. You know this and understand it—even if you don’t want to.”
Dash ground his teeth. He looked away, unable to think straight with those eyes on him.
“Did you go to a hospital?” he said, fighting words out of his tightening throat.
“Your concern for my welfare is touching, Cassidy, but quite unnecessary. I have survived far, far worse.”
Dash gripped the gun tight. “So what do you want?”
Vasiliev didn’t answer right away. He blinked, his bruised face a mask in the darkness. Then he took a careful, limping step forward.
“I wanted to say I’m sorry.”
Dash handled his reaction to the words carefully, like he might cut himself just by thinking about it.
“Bullshit,” he made himself say. “You’re not sorry.”
“Yes, I am.”
“Sorry for what, exactly?”
“Sorry things have to be this way,” Vasiliev murmured after a pause.
“I don’t believe you.”
“You don’t have to,” he replied, his voice soft and accent smoother than iced vodka. “But we wanted to work with you, Cassidy. That was always the plan. Damaro was telling the truth about that.”
“Work with me by getting into my pants?”
He shrugged one shoulder. “Whatever worked for you.”
“I would never be part of anything like this, however good you are in bed.”
Something glinted in his eyes. “Then your club will be destroyed.”
Dash clenched his fists. “I’m not gonna let that happen. Consider yourself warned.”
A pause. “You let me live for a reason.”
Dash swallowed. When he spoke, his voice was hoarse. “Because I know you don’t want to be part of this, no matter how much she’s paying you.”
“You seem to think you know me,” Vasiliev said after a hesitation so brief Dash wasn’t sure if he’d imagined it. “You don’t.”
“You let us rescue those kids,” Dash pressed, searching Vasiliev’s face in the darkness. “I’m guessing you only shot the driver so you could tell Damaro you tried.”
“These are dangerous waters you’re swimming in,” Vasiliev said softly. “You need to turn with the tide or you’ll drown.”
Dash raised his gun, relieved when his hand didn’t shake. Vasiliev glanced at it. There was silence for a long moment. When he spoke again, his voice was low, intimate. “If you’d wanted me dead, you’d’ve killed me last night.”
“Clearly last night was a mistake.”
“It didn’t feel like a mistake.”
“What do you want from me?” Dash said, his voice raw, his gun now starting to tremble.
Vasiliev took a limping step forward…then another. He was close enough to smell. Clean mint. Warm leather. Dash lowered the gun with a shaking hand. Vasiliev gazed into his face. His breath was soft against Dash’s jaw.
“You know,” he whispered. “You knew before I did.”
Dash’s breath caught in his chest. He dropped the gun, threaded his fingers into the silk-soft hair, drew Vasiliev’s face in and kissed him. Vasiliev opened his mouth with a sound almost like a sigh of relief. Dash slid his tongue in, swallowing his taste, inhaling the fresh, wild scent of him.
Vasiliev moved his hands up Dash’s naked back, digging his fingers into the muscles of his shoulders. He pressed his body to Dash’s, all lithe flesh and contained strength, and Dash internally cursed the barrier of fabric between them. He tugged impatiently at the hem of Vasiliev’s T-shirt. Vasiliev stepped back to pull it over his head. Dash had one moment to take in the dappled bruising and cuts along his ribs before Vasiliev was crushing himself to him again, taking possession of his mouth and thrusting his hands into his underwear to knead his ass.
Dash growled into his mouth and backed him toward the bed, employing all his effort to resist manhandling him too roughly. Vasiliev made a tiny, pained noise as they moved but then lowered himself onto the bed, pulling Dash with him. Dash shifted his weight so he lay along Vasiliev’s side, well clear of the injured leg, even though Vasiliev made a frustrated growl in his chest and tried to pull him on top.
“I can take it, Cassidy,” he breathed. “Stop holding back.”
In response, Dash wrestled open his jeans and slid his hand in to grasp Vasiliev’s hard cock. Vasiliev gasped into Dash’s mouth, his hands tightening on his arms. Dash worked the tender flesh, swallowing the noises the slight man made in response. His own cock was painfully hard, his entire groin throbbing with need. He thrust against Vasiliev’s hip, desperate for friction.
Vasiliev yanked Dash’s boxers down, rolled onto his side and took his cock in both hands. Dash moaned deep in his throat, the heat and pleasure rolling through him in waves.
“Tell me what you want,” Dash whispered, trailing his mouth up Vasiliev’s jaw to the delicate skin under his ear. “Tell me what drives you crazy.”
“You, Darius Cassidy,” Vasiliev panted, his pace increasing on Dash’s cock. The need was raw in his voice, scrubbing away his usual smoothness. There was something else in the words, too. Something…desperate. “You drive me fucking crazy. Your fire, your anger, the goddamn tattoos…everything.’”
“Tell me what you want.”
“I need…ah… I don’t know…”
Dash worked him faster. “Tell me.”
Vasiliev opened his eyes, breathing racing. “I want your cock in me when I come.”
Dash moaned, part aching want, part frustration. “I can’t. I’ll hurt you.”
“You won’t.”
Dash nipped at the skin of Vasiliev’s long, enticing neck, feeling the muscles contract as he swallowed. Dash propped his weight on one elbow, kissing him deeply as he slid his jeans down. Vasiliev’s weeping cock sprang free. He whimpered and arched, seeking contact. Dash’s blood was pounding in his ears and groin. All he wanted was to tear off Vasiliev’s remaining clothing, flip him over and plow into him, make him scream, beg. He wanted to see what he was like when completely undone, at his mercy, desperate and out of control with desire. But he made himself move slowly, pulling the denim down Vasiliev’s bandaged thigh gently.
Vasiliev’s breath caught, and his brow creased in pain, but he lifted the leg and allowed Dash to slide the jeans off. Dash brushed his hand up the injured leg, skirting the bandage. The skin was cool, the bandage clean. He bent over and brushed kisses over Vasiliev’s hip bone, lower belly, the top of his uninjured thigh. Vasiliev muttered between clenched teeth and reached for his cock, but Dash stopped him with a hold on his wrist.
“Not yet,” he mumbled against Vasiliev’s ribs as he lazily stroked himself.
“Cassidy,” he panted, “you heartless clod. Please.”
“Call me Dash,” he whispered, then ran his tongue up Vasiliev’s breastbone and over a nipple. Vasiliev’s breath shuddered out of him. Again he tried to reach his cock but Dash tightened his hold his wrist. “I told you,” Dash said, working the other nipple as he beat himself deliciously with his free hand. “Not yet.”
Vasiliev growled, biting his lip. “I will get you for this,” he hissed. “This is torture.”
“Well, I owe you a little of that,” Dash whispered against his chest, pinning his wrist to the bed by his head as he kept his other arm out the way with his elbow.
Vasiliev made a low, keening noise and Dash reluctantly let go of his own member to tease at the Russian’s nipples with his hand as he sucked on his earlobe.
“Dash,” Vasiliev begged, his breathing ragged. “For fuck’s sake—” He cut off with a gasp as Dash grasped his member and rubbed his thumb over the tip, smearing the gathered moisture there.
